


Milestone

by QueerSherlockian (Anglophile_Fiend)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dorks in Love, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Prompt Fill, Retirement, Retirementlock, Silly, Sussex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-09
Updated: 2014-04-09
Packaged: 2018-01-18 17:46:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1437181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anglophile_Fiend/pseuds/QueerSherlockian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock heads to the mall in search of a gift for John's 60th birthday, it all goes according to plan...of course not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Milestone

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Callie4180](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Callie4180/gifts).



> A gift for callie4180 and the Springlock 2014 Exchange

Sherlock eased his bulky Land Rover into a tight parking space. Here we go, he thought grimly, took a deep breath, and loosened his scarf before heading into Swanwalk Mall. It had been a few years since they’d retired to Sussex Downs, but this would be Sherlock’s first foray into the oversized faux-victorian complex.

He hadn’t planned on doing anything unusual for John’s birthday tomorrow. Other than buying grey socks tonight. Until Mycroft reminded him that tomorrow is a Milestone Birthday for John, and therefore socks would not be sufficient. Sherlock wasn’t inclined to listen to his elder brothers suggestions, but delving into his Mind Palace altered his perceptions. He accessed the memory of John’s last Milestone Birthday at fifty. John had sulked for months after Sherlock’s presentation of a pair of unwrapped grey socks. Which led him here, to this bastion of consumerism, the local mall to find the perfect Milestone Birthday Gift.

Sherlock had been instructed that the mall would contain a suitable present, something one does for a Milestone Birthday, allegedly.  What that item was supposed to be, he hadn’t a clue, and neither did Mycroft.  Other than to continue proclaiming “Sixty Sherlock, John is turning sixty, tomorrow!”, and on and on about how Sherlock was expected to find something spectacular for his husband. Sherlock acquiesced, and with a glum exterior he left early that morning for the mall in search of this“special” gift. Although he failed to see how turning sixty was any different than fifty-nine or fifty-eight for that matter.

During the past two decades of marriage, Sherlock has learned many things about relationships. One of them, the importance of buying gifts for your husband’s birthday. Even though being released from the womb is hardly a reason to celebrate, he placated John because he did in fact, want him to be happy. A happy John is infinitely preferable to any of his other moods, but it made Sherlock’s heart swell when John gave him one of those brilliant smiles. When John fixed bright blue eyes on his own, he felt his knees weaken, even more than they typically do, he was almost fifty-five, so it might be arthritis.

Either way, with less than twenty-four hours until the big day, and Sherlock’, in the middle of a mall in Horsham. He was surrounded by loud teenagers, slow elderly people, and families with prams large enough to block entire aisles. He was miserable, but he had a mission. First to Marks & Spencer for the socks. Every year for his birthday, no matter what the main present was, Sherlock always bought a pair of socks for John. This tradition smacked of sentiment, and Sherlock would buy anything to be near John when he’s full of that emotion.

On his way to the men’s section, for a suitable pair of grey socks, he passed the women’s undergarment section. Colorful, and garish as always, but something caught his eye. A pair of long yellow, and black striped socks. It was of course, the tiny sewn bees that grabbed his attention as they were anatomically correct. A rarity for bee merchandise, something Sherlock had learned in his many years practicing apiculture out on their farm. Without any internal debate on the matter Sherlock gave in to his impulse, and bought the pair for John. He didn’t think that John would actually wear them, but it would likely make him smile, and that was all Sherlock wanted. He’d have to continue searching for the prize present, but at least he had some socks.

While Sherlock planned to get out of the mall as soon as possible, he detoured when he spotted a sign for Wilko. He’d bought supplies from the chain before, and figured he might as well take advantage of his close proximity to the store. Two hours later, Sherlock left a few hundred pounds lighter. He trekked back through the masses to the parking lot, and dumped his non-birthday-present-filled bags (and the socks) into the SUV. Sherlock hated crowds with a passion, but he had to find something special for John tonight. Resigned to an afternoon of misery, Sherlock took a few languid breaths before returning the mall.

Sherlock did truthfully love his husband, even after almost two decades of marriage, he was still in love with John Hamish Watson-Holmes. The soon-to-be sixty year old, who took such wonderful care of Sherlock, and loved him more deeply than he deserved. The man who’d been his partner in every sense of the word, and who he’d died for, and would do it again in a heartbeat. That is the man he aims to please. His only hope, this gift would show John how he’s an appreciated and valued presence in Sherlock’s life, so that he wouldn’t have to find the words to tell him aloud.

Back inside Sherlock found himself staring into Clinton’s Card Shop. He wondered if a card could put all of his feelings, and emotions into the words that he could not. He stepped up to the rack closest to the door that screamed BIRTHDAY in giant glittery letters. He thumbed through the Birthday Husband section, but each one said, From Your Wife or Your Loving Wifey-Darling, and that wouldn’t do. Next Sherlock tried the humor category, but none of them made any sense, let alone draw a smile from him. He shook his curls at yet another kitten covered card, a group photo of fluffy white cats with party hats, and inside it said, Hope your Birthday is Purrrfect. Sherlock abandoned the card idea at once, and fled the store.

Directly across he spied Jessops, a camera shop. Sherlock wondered if John would appreciate a new camera. The one he used to snap wildlife photos during his walks had to be ancient by now. Sadly for John, when the salesperson finished, Sherlock was the proud new owner of a Canon EOS digital Rebel, an additional 105mm lens, a teleconverter, a spare battery, and a case to hold all of his new booty. Apparently, snapping shots of bees is an expensive endeavor, and he almost felt guilty about spending money on more non-birthday items, but it was for scientific recording purposes, so he took his purchases back to stockpile in his SUV without regret.

Inside the brick building again, Sherlock entered Collingwood’s. Maybe John would like a new chair, he speculated. They had been using the same living room set Mycroft purchased as an anniversary present ten years ago, and John always complained about missing his red chair from Baker Street.  He stalked the rows of chairs the store had in-stock, but nothing matched that old wingback of Mrs. Hudson’s. In vain effort, Sherlock forced his tired bones to sit in each style of chair. He hoped one would be a suitable replacement for John’s current chair, however, he had no luck, as each one either too hard, too large, too hideous or all three combined.

Not finding a piece in the entire store that Sherlock approved of having in his home, he swirled to leave. That’s when he saw it, hidden by a fake ficus, a leather and wood chair. So minimalist, so completely out of place with all the oversized pieces filling the store, he had to check it out. Slim, black, and modern, Sherlock heaved his fatigued legs onto the matching footstool. He knew the moment they crossed at the ankle, this was his new chair. It reclined a bit, but mostly it cocooned him in velvet soft comfort.

An employee spied the easy sale, and an hour later, men in coveralls loaded his chair into the Range Rover. Sherlock had to move his piles of purchases to make room for the chair box. They told him it was easy to put together, and he assumed John would make quick work of it, so he turned down their offer to assemble it for a hefty fee.

Sherlock gave the day a cursory analysis; thus far he’d managed to buy socks, multiple items for his own personal use, including the most perfect chair in existence, but not the single item he came out in search of, no the Milestone Birthday Gift. He blew out a heavy sigh, detesting the locale, and marched himself back into the mall for the fourth time, determined to find The gift. As tomorrow is John’s actual birthday, Sherlock didn’t have much of a choice.

Halfway down the mall, Sherlock spied an interesting store, The Body Shop it proclaimed. When he reached the entryway, instead of finding a morgue with corpses, there was a cacophony of synthetic fragrances. It appeared to be some kind of specialty pharmacy. One that only contained items made from the armpits of monkeys, or other such nonsense, and Sherlock quickly turned on his heel to leave.

A dozen stores later, and Sherlock’s beginning to get frustrated. Every store he entered wrong for John, and right for him. Somehow he’d managed to buy even more items for himself. At this rate, he’d need to purchase a trailer to cart all of his new belongings home, and still, no gift for John. Sherlock schlepped his heavy bags inside W.H. Smith’s, pace markedly slower than when he began this little adventure. He guessed John would appreciate a new novel, as he read with great frequency instead of helping Sherlock with his experiments like a proper husband.

Standing in front of the Best Sellers, Sherlock didn’t have a clue which novels John had or hadn’t read. Even though John often talked about whatever detective story he was currently reading, over the years they all blended together, and Sherlock had stopped listening. Instead, he performed the nod, grunt, and grimace tactic. This placated his adoring spouse long enough for Sherlock to get back to whatever he’d been working on before John decided to give him an oral book report.

He checked his phone, a quarter to six, how did it get this late?, he mused while leaving the store. He’d had his phone on silent, and missed a slew of text messages from John.  He thumbed through them before he reached the large glass doors that led to the parking lot.

-last minute huh?

-still shopping?

-what are you doing out there?

-are you lost?

-Sherlock call me. it’s been hours since you left

-are you dead? you better not be dead.

-Sherlock I’m getting worried. please call me

-Sherlock?

-Sherlock please

-Sherlock call home

The last message had been sent almost an hour ago, so Sherlock wasted no time and rang his husband.

“Sherlock! Where the devil have you been?”  
“Hello to you too John.”

“I’ve been worried sick about you, are you alright?”

“I’m fine. Still at the mall.”  
“Still? Sherlock, I’m almost done with dinner. Come home now. Please?”

“But I haven’t purchased your special present yet.”

“My what?”

“Your Special-Turning-Sixty-Milestone-Present-Gift-Surprise that I’m supposed to buy you.”

“Sherlock. Do you know, what you want to buy me?”

“Mmm...No. Not exactly, but I’m sure that-”  
“No.” John cut him off. “Forget it. I don’t need stuff, I just need you. So get your arse home promptly mister Holmes-Watson.”

“Well, when you use your Captain voice, how can I refuse?”

Both men shared a small laugh then Sherlock continued, “I’m almost to the parking structure. Be home soon”

“Alright Sherlock. Drive safe.”

“I will...John, are you still there?”

“Yeah.”

“I love you.”  
“I love you too,Sherlock.”

They both ended the call as Sherlock swung open the exit door, the cool night air felt blissful on his warm skin. He didn’t find a special gift for John, but he’d find a way to make it up to him. Without a doubt, John would forgive him, like he always did. Sherlock smiled to himself as he made his way to his Range Rover. He unlocked the SUV with a beep, when a sharp noise caught his attention.

He spun towards the sound, but didn’t see anyone or anything other than rows of cars in the lot. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up as he froze in place. He remained still, listening for it again, not daring to move. Something about the timber or pitch had struck him powerfully, and Sherlock had grown cautious in his retired days. He heard the sound again, though this time much sharper and louder.

Sherlock lowered his bags to the ground, with slow and purposeful movements. He peered under his SUV, and met two black eyes. Seconds later one small wet tongue leapt towards his face.

In a quiet and gentle voice Sherlock spoke to the dog, “Well, what do we have here?”  The dog’s nub of a tail wagged so hard, his entire back half shook with joy. Sherlock reached out, and the pup let himself be picked up without struggle. Though once Sherlock had him cradled in his arms, the dog continued his mission to lick Sherlock’s face.

“You’ve been out here for a while.” He inspected every inch of the dog. “Hmm, as I thought, a boy. No doubt separated from you mother recently. It’s a miracle you’re still alive.” Sherlock continued to deduce the puppy’s origins. “You are a purebred English Bulldog, and would no doubt fetch quite the hefty sum from a breeder as your lines are immaculate.” Sherlock spoke as white and brown fur nestled in the crook of his arm. He used his free arm to load up his remaining purchases, filling the SUV to the brim, while considering his options.

He could sell the dog or drop it off at the pound he mused.  Inspecting the pudgy, wrinkled, and sleepy face, a small smile broke out across Sherlock's face. “No, you're ours aren't you?"  he asked rhetorically. "The real question is, what shall we call you?” Sherlock paused, entered his Mind Palace, and decided upon a suitable moniker for their new addition. “Ah, yes... Gladstone. Perfect. Alright Gladstone, let’s go meet your father.” Without shifting the now sleeping pup from his arm-cradle, Sherlock drove them and his truck full of treasures home, bursting with joy.

 


End file.
